


Rewards and Sacrifices

by Mynameisdoubleg



Category: BattleTech: MechWarrior, Classic Battletech (Tabletop RPG)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:48:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mynameisdoubleg/pseuds/Mynameisdoubleg
Summary: Traces the rise of Thaddeus Kusaka to command of the 21st Centauri Lancers -- one of the premier mercenary units in the entire Inner Sphere in 3025 -- including both the sacrifices he makes to make it to the top, and the rewards once he gets there.





	Rewards and Sacrifices

_Enlightened Shore_

_Bithinia_

_Capellan Confederation_

_31 March, 3012_

The tangled wraith tendrils of cyan mist were growing thicker, but that did not concern Captain Thaddeus Kusaka. He didn’t need eyes to see. In the cockpit of his 70-ton _Warhammer_ , Kusaka switched the visual display to infrared. The view out the ferroglass window was overlaid in a greenish sheen that pierced the encroaching gloom. The road became a band of shadow, the sea a pool of jade, the meter-high paternoster bulbs that grew thickly on either side of the coastal road shone like tiny emeralds, bobbing and swaying as the tread of Kusaka’s BattleMech shook the ground.

“I heard congratulations are in order Stan,” Nadia Quick was saying. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“The cutest girl there has ever been or ever will be in the entire Inner Sphere,” replied Stan Wyzek.

Kusaka paid little attention to the banter among his company’s MechWarriors. He was focused on the mission. Let them chatter, he figured. Things were going well. The raid was a success. At least, so far. The 21st Centauri Lancers had executed a flawless lightning drop, swept down unchallenged on the shipping yard of Bithinia Ballistics, and scooped up several months’ worth of production. Kusaka’s company was now escorting a long and snaking caravan of 20 cargo trucks, laden with autocannon assemblies and ammunition, back to the regiment’s DropShips. The trucks chortled as though in satisfaction, smugly fuming their way along the road by the _Warhammer_ ’s feet.

The company was in good position, Recon Lance out front, Fire Lance bringing up the rear, his own in the center. The four BattleMechs marched in a line on the landward side of the road, shielding the convoy against any attack, with Wyzek’s _Griffin_ in the lead, followed by his own _Warhammer_ , then Quick’s _Catapult_ and finally Xue Yan’s _Quickdraw_.

“Speaking of which, how old is your son, Captain?” asked Wyzek.

Kusaka frowned slightly at the distraction. The road rose in a gentle incline, headed for a line of hills. Kusaka reached forward, slid the throttle up a notch to compensate and maintain speed, carefully eyed the ’Mech’s leg servomotor and actuator status lights stay a contented, solid green before replying. “Watch your spacing, Hammer Lance,” he said. The frown deepened slightly. “The boy is ... about 14, I believe.”

Wyzek chuckled a little. “You believe, sir?”

Yan laughed too. “Oh, poor Wyzek. He doesn’t know about the Captain.”

“You’re new around here Wyzek, so let me explain: The Captain here is half BattleMech,” said Quick. “Got a reactor for a heart and liquid polymer in his veins and ain’t got time for any of that silly ‘Remembering your own kids’ names or ages’ stuff.”

Wyzek was quiet for a moment, letting a disapproving silence fall over the company channel. “Well, that’s a shame,” he said at last. “Sir.”

“Perhaps we can refocus here, people,” Kusaka said sharply. “ETA to DropShips is 54 minutes. Rough terrain ahead, stay on your toes. House Ma-Tsu Kai is still out there somewhere.” The planet’s garrison, an elite Capellan Warrior House regiment, hadn’t showed yet. They were reputed to be tough fighters, though not on the level of the Lancers of course.

The comm system buzzed with an incoming signal from the Recon Lance. Kusaka clicked the channel open.

“Hammer Actual, Tripwire One here. Contact. Looks like a lance or two of light armor, maybe a full company. Engaging, request support.”

“Acknowledged, Tripwire One.” Kusaka called up the local map on the HUD, thinking quickly. He didn’t doubt the Recon Lance could deal with the Capellan tanks, probably fielded by the local militia, but he also didn’t want anything to slow down or delay the convoy. “Quick, Yan, move up to support Tripwire. Wyzek you stay with me.” He punched another channel for the Fire Lance. “Doorstop One, this is Hammer Actual. Tripwire has encountered hostiles. Close it up, be prepared to support either Hammer or Tripwire.”

Even as they acknowledged, Quick’s raptor-profile _Catapult_ and Yan’s humanoid _Quickdraw_ were already picking up speed, racing ahead to reinforce the Recon Lance. Cool, professional, the way it should be. Kusaka checked the map again. Fire Lance would catch up in a few minutes.

“Captain, I got a ping on the MAD,” called Wyzek after Quick and Yan’s BattleMechs had disappeared over the closest ridge. “Three o’clock, multiple contacts, range two kilometers and closing.”

Kusaka clicked acknowledgement, swinging his _Warhammer_ around to face the new threat. Pincer move, he thought, pin them in place with armor while their BattleMechs hit the convoy in the flank. Recall Quick and Yan or trust that he and Wyzek could hold them off until Fire Lance arrived?

Snap decision. “Wyzek, stick with me. Doorstop One, we have hostiles, zero-four Bravo Mikes. Request an assist.” Even as he spoke, Kusaka’s hands were a blur at the controls, calling up sensors, programing weapons fire patterns. He counted four Capellan BattleMechs, white-hot silhouettes on his screen’s green-on-green display: A light _Ostscout_ , a _Vindicator_ , a _Blackjack_ and a _JagerMech_. The last two were bad news as their light autocannon, originally intended for antiaircraft work, outranged anything either he or Wyzek carried and would let them pick off the convoy trucks at leisure.

Well, couldn’t give them any leisure then. “Wyzek, target the Oscar-Tango. Close to contact, protect the convoy.” He rammed the throttle lever against the limit, pushing the _Warhammer_ into a rhinoceros charge towards the Capellans.

The _Ostscout_ was sprinting forwards too, trying to zip past them and get among the convoy trucks. Kusaka twisted as it ran by, lead the target, fired the two massive particle cannon mounted in the BattleMech’s tubular arms. Blue-white spears of light blasted through the _Ostscout_ ’s left leg, sending it sprawling face-down, sliding, gouging a long furrow in the ground.

Kusaka had no time to exult. The _Warhammer_ shuddered as autocannon shells thudded against the armor. The _Vindicator_ fired a salvo of missiles and its own pulse of particle fire—past Kusaka. There was a scream over the lance channel, and on Kusaka’s control panel the status light for Wyzek’s _Griffin_ winked red. A quick glance at the 360-vision strip above his canopy showed the _Griffin_ toppling forward, smoke pouring from a ragged hole in the head unit.

Kusaka wasted no time in mourning. The _Vindicator_ fired its jets and leaped into the air—trying to get past him and target the convoy. If Kusaka turned and tried to follow, and he’d be exposing his soft rear armor to the cannons of the _Blackjack_ and _JagerMech_. He could use that to his advantage, though. Kusaka sidestepped, planted one leg and flung the _Warhammer_ around 180 degrees. The _Vindicator_ came hurtling down, straight into the line of Capellan cannon fire that had been aimed at Kusaka. Instead of hitting him, Kusaka’s half-spin resulted in them hitting their own lancemate. The _Vindicator_ staggered, its back still to Kusaka.

Too close for PPCs. Kusaka thumbed the secondary and tertiary triggers, dumping medium and small laser beams, missiles and twin streams of machine gun fire into the ’Mech’s back. The already-battered rear armor crumpled, cracked and caved in, exposing the fusion engine within, the bottled sun at the heart of every BattleMech. Its fire stuttered and dimmed, automatically shut down as the lasers pierced its protective shielding, and the Mech’s arms fell lifeless.

Kusaka was moving again, nearly dancing through the streams of shells trying vainly to reach for him. His own answering fire was brutally accurate—soon the _Blackjack_ , one arm hanging useless, took a step back, then another, then leaped away on its jump jets, bounding away in frantic retreat. The _JagerMech_ , lacking any jets of its own, tried to break contact too, shuffling hesitantly backwards, but it was too late, too slow.

By the time Fire Lance appeared, Kusaka was standing over its burning, smoking wreckage, leaving his company nothing to do but stare in awe. And recover the wreckage of Wyzek’s _Griffin_.

The sun was rising, burning off the mist. The golden rays bathed down on Kusaka through the cockpit ferroglass, like a blessing. He closed his eyes and breathed in, willing himself to always remember this moment. This was it. This was what he trained for, prepared for, honed himself for all his life. The ultimate expression of the warrior’s skill. Dedication like this took sacrifices, sometimes painful sacrifices, but look at the reward: Three BattleMechs destroyed, a fourth heavily damaged, at no loss to the convoy, in less than five minutes of combat. A flawless display.

Well, almost flawless. Flawless, save for the death of Stan Wyzek, killed by a lucky particle shot to his BattleMech’s cockpit.

_Alliago Major_

_Gienah_

_Lyran Commonwealth_

_31 October, 3022_

Lieutenant Colonel Thaddeus Kusaka sighed and frowned down at the holotank. Despite his glowering, the icons marking the Lyran positions refused to move or grow fewer in number. The 14th Lyran Guards were proving as stubborn and immovable as their reputation suggested.

Kusaka ran a hand across his shaved scalp—he’d started growing bald, and razored away the rest of it. No sense in doing things by half measures. He’d taken to growing a mustache, instead. He called up the battalion status reports again, as though trying to will the numbers to look better, to make this attack look winnable.

“They’re in a strong position along that ridge,” said Colonel Jude Haskell. The 21st Centauri Lancer’s current regimental commander was a big, blunt man, an image only slightly offset by a pair of round, gold-framed spectacles. “Unity knows, they’ve been fighting hard for three months with no signs of cracking. Not sure another push is going to make any difference, Kusaka. Maybe we’re throwing good money after bad at this stage.”

There were mutters of agreement from the three Majors standing around the holotank. The five men in the room were all veterans of one of the Inner Sphere’s toughest mercenary regiments. But their faces were resigned. The fight had gone out of them.

“With respect, I am not so sure, sir,” Kusaka began. “Any position can be neutralized, given sufficient leverage and pressure. I would not have us abandon the mission now. Consider the damage to our reputation.”

Haskell rubbed his chin. “Look, Kusaka, I know you’re a hell of a MechJock. Hell, maybe the best there was in the entire Inner Sphere, before the Black Widow. If I had a battalion of guys like you, I’d say sure, we can dig them out. But not everyone has your ... drive. Every merc unit needs to know when to quit—look at the Dragoons at Hesperus in ’19. At the end of the day, we’re still mercenaries, Kusaka. We’ve got to think not only about what’s doable, but also what’s practicable.”

Kusaka tapped at the map controls, calling up the center of the Lyran’s line. “All I need is a company, sir,” he said doggedly. “We’ll feint at the center, feign a retreat and let them think they’ve beaten us. When they come down off the ridge in pursuit, into open ground, we cut them off, crush them, punch through the center and roll up both flanks.”

Two of the Majors muttered together, but Haskell was silent. Finally, he said “Just one company?”

“Just one,” Kusaka said. “Give me Bravo Company, Quick’s Battalion. They’re light, mobile and have minimal combat damage.”

Major Nadia Quick folded her arms across her chest. “Colonel, it’s a bad idea. The whole battalion is exhausted, and nobody’s going to want to throw their lives away for this waste of time.”

Haskell looked up, nodded in acknowledgement to Quick but kept his eyes on Kusaka. “Bravo Company? That’s your son’s unit, Kusaka.”

Kusaka shrugged. “I realize that, sir, and thank you for your consideration, but that fact is irrelevant to the matter at hand. It’s still the unit that best fits the mission profile.”

“All right,” Haskell said, ignoring Major Quick swearing under her breath. “You’ve got one more shot at this. Quick, I don’t want to hear it. Work with Kusaka on the details. Kusaka, I want a plan on my desk by first light tomorrow.” He looked around the room. “Dismissed.”

Kusaka went straight from the mobile headquarters to his own field tent and was soon hunched over his noteputer, going over intelligence reports, terrain maps, after-action reviews, logistics data—the attack would work. Must work.

There was a cough from the tent entrance and he looked up, blinking a little to refocus his eyes from the glare of the ‘puter screen. A young man in the Lancers’ green and brown fatigues, forage cap held nervously in his hands.

“Can I have a word with you, dad?”

Kusaka pointedly saluted. “Is there something you wish to discuss, Lieutenant Kusaka?”

His son, Andreas Kusaka, grimaced and belatedly returned the salute. “Sir, rumor is we’re going to take another stab at the Elsies tomorrow.”

“I don’t have time to discuss rumors, Lieutenant,” Kusaka replied, looking back down at the plans again. “If you have concerns about specific operational orders, you should discuss them with your direct superior, Captain Egorov.”

“Look, sir, dad,” Andreas took a few steps forward, standing at the edge of the desk, his voice dropping. “Some of the guys, they. Well. They think you’re pushing too hard on this. Understand I’m trying to be diplomatic here—some of them are really pissed off, saying you’re throwing their lives away.”

Kusaka sat back in his chair and took a deep breath before replying. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Lieutenant. Is there anything else?”

Andreas was shaking his head. “This is so like you, dad,” he said. “Like you’ve got blinders on, all you can see is the mission. You can’t see the people around you. Even your own family.”

Kusaka’s expression did not change. “Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

Andreas turned and made to leave. At the tent flap he turned back. “Would it kill you to show a little humanity, dad? Just for once?”

“Do you think I got to be one of the best MechWarriors in the Sphere by ‘showing a little humanity’, son?” Kusaka barked, patience finally snapping. “Do you think Natasha Kerensky is called the Black Widow because she has such a sweet temperament? Do you think Gerhardt Hansen built the Roughriders into one of the toughest units in the Inner Sphere by being a good father? Do you think the Eridani Light Horse have stayed together for two centuries by playing with their kids? I am sorry I did not have much time for you when you were growing up, Andreas, but I saw before me the potential, the possibility to be one of the greatest practitioners of BattleMech warfare in my generation. To do less than wholly devote myself to that task would have been cowardice, an insult to the potential I sensed within myself. If the cost was estrangement from my family, then that was a sacrifice I had to bear.”

Andreas nodded, looked down at the cap in his hands. “Yeah, that’s the hard part, isn’t it?” he said absently into the bowl of the cap. “I do respect you dad. Lieutenant Colonel. But you can’t expect everybody to be like you. You push too hard, and something’s going to break.” He slapped the cap back on his head, saluted, and ducked out the tent flap.

Kusaka sighed, looked down at his timepiece. Good, still enough time to get Major Quick’s buy-in on ‘Operation Hastings’, as he dubbed it, before they ran it past Colonel Haskell.

The next morning, Kusaka stood at the foot of his _Warhammer_ dressed in the standard MechWarrior shorts and short-sleeved shirt, under a grey and overcast sky, skin goosebumped in the cold wind. He took the heavy, bulky cooling vest from one of the technicians and settled it over his shoulders, fastening the clasps with methodical precision. Biofeedback sensors came next, as he pressed their cold, round suction cups against his arms and legs. Discomfort was nothing, though. Didn’t matter.

Kusaka looked up at his war machine. It towered over him, 10 meters tall, cocooned like all the other BattleMechs in the Lancers’ camp in a web-work of metal scaffolding, draped with coolant tubes, lubricant lines and color-coded power cables that hung like neon waterfalls. The panels of its back armor were hinged open as automated feeders loaded missiles and long, snake coils of machinegun bullets into the ammunition bays.

Like most BattleMechs these days, it was ancient, having stepped off the production line over a century ago, and wore its scars both inside and out. Mismatched armor plates gave it a slightly lopsided, asymmetrical profile and the shoulder-mounted searchlight was missing, while the targeting HUD would shut down for two seconds if you fired both PPCs at the same time. Kusaka gazed up at it with affection, however. It was his. He knew it perhaps better than he knew any human being, maybe better than he knew himself.

He fit the communication receivers in each ear, adjusted the straps on the throat mike and plugged it into a powerpack at his waist, then held out his hands for the neurohelmet, the link between MechWarrior and BattleMech, the bond between man and machine.

One earpiece was loose. Kusaka tried to wedge it in the canal more comfortably with the tip of his little finger. There was a sudden burst of static, then a panicked voice speaking. “Colonel Haskell, this is Captain Egorov. I’ve got a situation here. Code Fletcher-Bounty.”

Kusaka turned and peered towards the part of the camp occupied by Major Quick’s battalion and Egorov’s Bravo Company. There were BattleMechs moving out there, stomping around in disorder and confusion. Fletcher-Bounty: That was code for mutiny.

Kusaka grabbed his neurohelmet and began scrambling up the scaffolding towards the _Warhammer_ ’s cockpit.

“Egorov, This is Haskell,” the Colonel came on the channel, his voice smooth and reassuring. “Understood. What’s the situation?”

Kusaka tried to divide his attention between the conversation and the BattleMech. He roared for the technicians to disconnect the power lines and feeds. Close the ammunition bins.

“It’s Kusaka’s Lance. MechWarriors Baille, Moli and Yan, sir. They got into their ’Mechs, then said they weren’t going to take part in any suicidal attack. They’ve taken Lieutenant Kusaka hostage, sir, and demand to speak with you.”

“On my way,” Haskell replied. “Thaddeus, you there?”

Kusaka did not respond. He grabbed either side of the cockpit door, launched himself feet-first into the command couch and slammed the inner and outer hatches shut behind him. One hand worked the restraints into place while the other raced across the controls, activating sensors and weapons systems.

“Thaddeus, I realize it’s your son, but let me handle this,” Haskell urged. “Respond, dammit.”

“Acknowledged sir,” Kusaka said as he brought the neurohelmet down over his head and let it settle on his shoulders. “Be advised I am ready to provide kinetic support should the need arise.”

“Let me handle it,” Haskell repeated, and clicked the channel shut.

Kusaka reached up, and slid the throttle forward. There was a hiss and a metallic groan, like an old man waking, and the _Warhammer_ stepped free of the scaffolding. Kusaka nodded in satisfaction. He felt calm, ready, alert. He swung towards Bravo Company’s bivouac, and picked up speed.

The mutineers had waited until the entire lance was in its BattleMechs before making their move, presumably to stop anyone from trying to take them out with stunners, darts or more lethal means. A _Wolverine_ stood directly in front of Andreas’s _Phoenix Hawk_ , still locked into its shroud of scaffolding, the maw of the _Wolverine_ ’s right-arm autocannon pointed directly at the cockpit. Three other empty BattleMech stations stood close by, one in front, one on either side, creating a kind of square arena. The two BattleMechs were partially shielded by the intervening bulk of a 40-ton _Clint_ and a heavier _Quickdraw_.

Haskell was standing on the ground by a jeep, just a tiny green and brown smudge standing before the towering war machines, alone save for his communications officer beside him. A little further back was a security cordon of Scimitar hover tanks and laser-armed infantrymen.

Kusaka stepped over them without breaking stride.

The comms were immediately filled with a cacophony of voices.

“Shit, it’s the XO!”

“Haskell, keep him away from us!”

“What the—Stand down, Kusaka,” Haskell urged. “You’re not helping. Stand down.”

“I am here to ensure the safety and security of all personnel, and the integrity of the mission,” Kusaka replied flatly. As a precaution, he locked his targeting crosshairs over the _Clint_.

“I’m being painted by his targeting system!”

“He’s here to kill us!”

“You promised us, Haskell!”

“We’ll kill the LT, I swear we will!”

“I did promise, now just wait, just calm down Yan, calm down everybody, wait, nobody is, Kusaka get back, nobody, I repeat, nobody is going to—”

“I can’t do that, sir,” Kusaka replied. “You need me, sir. I’m the only one who can contain these men if negotiations fail.”

“—kill anybody, now Kusaka turn off your targeting system, you are endangering your son, look, Moli, Baille, I sympathize, I understand what you are going through and I’m here to listen—”

“Like frack you are, Haskell!”

The _Clint_ took a threatening step forward towards Haskell, the dust from its footfall obscuring the Colonel for an instant.

The situation was spiraling out of control. Now, when they were distracted. This might be his only chance. Kusaka linked the PPCs, medium lasers and short-range missiles to the primary trigger. Got the tone for a lock. And fired.

The side of the _Clint_ suddenly lit up in dazzling fire from shoulder to hip. The 40-ton BattleMech was blown sideways, punched through by blinding lances of blue lightning and green laser fire, then seconds later by a swarm of missiles that burrowed their way inside gaping holes in the armor like a school of piranhas, blasting holes from the inside out. The _Clint_ hit the ground with an impact Kusaka felt through the bottom of his couch, and did not get up.

“Cease fire, Kusaka, cease fire!”

“Kill him, Yan! Kill him!”

The _Quickdraw_ was charging, firing. Kusaka moved as though to block the charge, then yanked the throttle back, making the _Warhammer_ sway forward, then backpedal, straining for balance, just in time as the _Quickdraw_ thundered past the now-open space the _Warhammer_ had just filled, plowing straight into one of the empty BattleMech stations. Metal girders and supports screamed, snapped with sharp bangs like gunshots, bringing the entire structure down on top of the _Quickdraw_. Loose cables whiplashed around the BattleMech’s legs, tangling it, sending it pitching forward with the rest of the scaffolding.

An autocannon thudded. Kusaka swung around again. The _Wolverine_ still stood in front of the _Phoenix Hawk_. Smoke haloed the barrel of the autocannon, and the head of the _Phoenix Hawk_. The BattleMech, locked in place, still stood as rigid as a corpse, but the head now was tilted up at an odd angle. The armor plates at the back of the head jutted out at twisted angles.

“Bloody Blake’s beard,” Haskell was screaming now. “Security, take them down!”

“I told you. Warned you. I told you!”

The _Wolverine_ was turning towards Kusaka, twisting its autocannon around, trying to bring it to bear. Kusaka fired again, ignoring the stifling sauna heat now filling the cockpit as the ’Mech struggled to dump waste heat. The first PPC bolt smashed into the _Wolverine_ ’s right shoulder, then the second, melting armor into cancerous blobs, twisting the arm at an odd angle. The lasers carved bright lines across the ruined armor, cutting straight through the metal bone beneath and severing the arm completely.

The _Wolverine_ staggered, wildly firing its two remaining weapon systems—a head-mounted laser and shoulder missile rack—not bothering to aim.

“Watch it—” Haskell’s signal was drowned out in the thunder of an explosion.

The Scimitar tanks were firing now, bright lines of tracers converging on the _Wolverine_ like spotlights, its armor glittering from dozens of explosions. Kusaka took it apart with surgical precision. Another salvo of particle fire reduced its missile launcher to a smoldering wreck, then another silenced its remaining laser. The machine staggered, tried to raise its remaining hand in surrender—before a pair of PPC bolts pierced the head, blowing it into a boiling cloud of ferroglass shards and metal plates.

The _Quickdraw_ staggered to its feet, kicking away the tangle of struts, supports and metal beams, promptly becoming the new focus of the Scimitar’s fire. It raised its arms across the head, trying to shield itself from the merciless rain of shells. Giving Kusaka plenty of time to walk up to it, disengage the proximity safeties on the PPCs, press both barrels right against the _Quickdraw_ ’s heart. And squeeze the trigger. When the _Quickdraw_ fell, Kusaka looked down at it a moment, considering. Yan, Yan, he knew that name. From where? Oh yes, an old lancemate of his, from Bithinia and the fight with the Warrior House. His curiosity satisfied, Kusaka raised a foot, and brought it crashing down on the _Quickdraw_ ’s head.

When Kusaka stepped down from his _Warhammer_ and handed his neurohelmet to his Chief Technician, he was greeted by two staff officers.

“Sir, Lieutenant Colonel, sir,” the first man struggled for words. “Your son is dead, sir.”

“I know,” Kusaka nodded, and beckoned for the other man to speak.

“Colonel Haskell was also killed, sir,” he said. “Caught in the blast of a missile from Moli’s _Wolverine_. As XO, this makes you the acting Colonel, sir.”

Kusaka nodded again in mute acknowledgement. His gaze was lost in space for a moment, then refocused. “Call an emergency meeting of all officers ranked Captain and above in the regiment’s mobile headquarters.”

His blood was drumming in his ears as he looked about the room, at the gathered Majors and Captains now under his command. This was it. This was what he trained for, prepared for, honed himself for all his life. The ultimate expression of the commander’s skill.

“Good news, gentlemen,” he began, rubbing his hands together. “The munity within Bravo Company has been contained, although regrettably not without the loss of Colonel Haskell. In line with the established chain of command, I am assuming control of the regiment. Now, I know Colonel Haskell would have wanted us to continue with the mission. Prepare your men for Operation Hastings. De Klerk’s Lance will replace Kusaka’s.”

He stepped outside after the meeting was over, and looked out over the busy, bustling encampment. The sun broke through the clouds, the curtain of shadow slipped away, and a wave of sunlight swept across the camp. The regiment’s BattleMechs stood in proud and shining rows before him. His regiment. The finest mercenary regiment in the Inner Sphere.

Dedication like this took sacrifices, sometimes painful sacrifices, but look at the reward.


End file.
